


Reflection

by ewinfic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Depression, Flash Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewinfic/pseuds/ewinfic
Summary: Bucky sits and thinks about life, post-Steve.





	Reflection

His arm used to make tiny noises when it moved, barely audible scrapings and turnings, little shifting sounds. But ever since it was replaced with the Wakandan level tech, it moves as silently as a wind current in a clear sky. It makes, in fact, less noise than his human arm, which pops and creaks from time to time these days.

He sits and flexes his silent metal fist.

He reflects. He has the time for it. The world is in a state of flux, of regeneration, but for once, it's not in a state of immediate danger. He has no skill in building or creating; all of his skills have always been directed toward death and destruction. So he has a limited usefulness right now. But that doesn't worry him. Humanity and the universe being what it was, there would soon enough be a time for the soldier, the assassin, to rise again.

_Once, I was..._

Once, he was a young man. A young man who could fight, and dance, and charm women. A young man with friends and family, with purpose and vision. And then.

_And then._

They had buried Steve yesterday, with all due military grandeur, the salutes and the flag folding, every possible honor bestowed upon a coffin holding a corpse that was once the person he loved best in all the world.

_You saved me, and then you left me to go and die._

With some irony, he reflects that Steve had to go through this same exact feeling, this same emptiness. Back when Bucky himself had been thought dead. It was like having the breath knocked out of you, this feeling. It was like being trapped in an airless, dark room. Some part of him was frantically clawing at the insides of his own mind, desperate to get out, to get to a place where he was loved and safe again.

_Again._ That was a lie. When had he ever been loved and safe at the same time? Not since childhood.

He flexes his metal hand, turning it over and back in the sunlight. It reflects a seamlessly blue sky.

No wonder Steve had been willing to tear the world inside out to get his friend back. This feeling... a person would be willing to do damned near anything to get away from it. It was like being in the midst of the arctic without a coat. He could remember the winter in Russia, and even worse, the cold of being frozen in a tank, kept on ice until the next mission. Every time he was frozen, he had wanted to beg for a blanket, some clothing, anything to cover his nudity in the freezing chamber. Every time, he had known that begging would do no good. You had to face the cold and tell it that you were ready to die, because there was no other alternative.

_I am ready for you to die._

That doesn't make nearly as much sense. And it isn't true. He's not ready for Steve to be dead and gone. He's not ready to face the frozen wasteland alone again. Once upon a time he was ready to die because he had no hopes, no thought of any other existence than death and rebirth, rebirth and death. But he has experienced hope since then. And hope has ruined him.

He looks up at the sun for a moment, letting it burn his eyes before blinking away. The metal of his arm reflects the sun in tiny glints that scatter among the leaves of the trees above him. He can just barely see them.

He reflects. His time in Wakanda had been a time of healing, of a peace of sorts. He could go back there. Perhaps there is still healing to be had, alone on the savannah. It occurs to him that he could travel anywhere. He could go to Australia and wander the Outback. He could scale the Swiss Alps. He could journey through Central America. The world holds no dangers for him.

_I am the only danger to myself._

A breeze wends and weaves its way through the trees, caressing his cheek like a lover. He almost laughs at the image. He hasn't had a lover in over ninety years. And now? Who could possibly bear his weight, the weight of a century, the weight of dozens, perhaps hundreds of murders?

His metal arm used to be heavy, but now it is light, almost weightless compared to what it once was. His flesh arm is heavy, too heavy to lift, even if only to wipe the tears off his face. They trickle down through his stubble, drip from his chin. The breeze dries them, and then his cheeks are cold with the evaporation.

Steve had worn such a look of peace when he had reappeared. A look of contentment, a look of gracious appeasement. How dared he be so content. How dared he have a long life of love and happiness.

_How dare you leave me, to live and die happy._

Bucky looks out at the trees in the park and thinks. He's done nothing but react in recent days, nothing but go along, nothing but do what he's told. Now, he thinks. The world is arrayed before him in a span of wild possibility. He wants none of it.

_What do I want?_

He flexes his metal fist, and closes his eyes against the spring air, warm and soft on his face. It doesn't matter what he wants. Not anymore.

_Goodbye._


End file.
